


If At First...

by Unovis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Lestrade touched Sherlock might have been right. Then again, possibly not.<br/>A slightly revised version of a challenge fic for Come At Once. Contains dub-con fantasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If At First...

**Author's Note:**

> The original version of this was written hastily for [Come At Once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/) challenge no. 5, for which a preferably smutty work has to be completed within 24 hours. It was written for the prompt "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again," and was done in roughly 2 hours at 7 am on no sleep, iced coffee, and a healthy tumbler of Canadian Club. This version is a little smoothed over, though that Canadian Club really helps.

The first time he touched Sherlock Holmes, it was his fist in his hair, buried to the knuckles, pulling his head... 

“The first time I encountered your brother, as I’ve said, was at the site of the Grimber murder. Below the site, to be precise, on the pavement where he’d fallen. Through a window. Onto the murderer, as it was revealed.”

“The first time I met your son was at a crime scene.”

“The first time I met him, he was too dazed to speak. Less interesting than your story.”

“The first time I met Sherlock Holmes, I was impressed with his remarkable powers of observation and deduction. He remained, from that date, a valuable asset as a consultant to the department.”

The first time Lestrade met Sherlock Holmes was when the junkie idiot sucked him off in an alley for a pack of cigarettes, both of them flying high and sloppy mad. The next time Lestrade touched Sherlock Holmes, it was years after and quite the shock. 

[His libido fell to its knees and howled. He could see this, taste it, bite it in the arse. Sherlock liked it rough and dirty, he knew, which suited Lestrade. They’d use each other, hard. Spit and blood and pain could scrub away the bad bust, the cheating wife, the fruitless inquiry, the petty boredom of the every goddamn day. God knew what it could do for Sherlock; he’d have to ask. Friends. That too.]

By the time they were friends, or friendly, long after big brother intruded, well before the introduction of John Watson, Lestrade was sober and Sherlock was clean and nothing more occurred. The chance for knee-busting, palm-scraping, head banging fumbles against the alley walls oh fuck the locker shower floor the empty cell the stairs biting on the wallet thrust into his mouth to muffle his...had passed. The cheating wife reformed. The promotion came through. The CCTV was upgraded and repaired. There was no script, no anecdote, ever, of “the first time I fucked my friend/your brother/your son/your partner/the famous consultant/the charlatan.” Sherlock never acknowledged that first encounter, by word or touch or glance. Erased, Lestrade decided.

Lestrade did not erase. He replayed that alley suck among the best and dirtiest in his mind, after his wife was false again and left, and increasingly after Sherlock died. All bets were off, then, all restraints. He didn’t feel the scouring grief of John Watson, or the self-castigating snuffling of Anderson. He felt disgust. He felt rage. He felt, again, the burn of lust. When the memory wore thin, he mined regrets.

There was the time in the interview room. Wee hours of the night, no sleep, surly staff. “Bored,” growled Sherlock in his ear. “Camera,” said Lestrade. Sherlock sneered. Lestrade left.

[“Camera,” says Lestrade. “Bored,” insists Sherlock, reaching for Lestrade’s belt. One hand undoes Lestrade’s belt, one hand squeezes flesh through his trousers. Teeth bite below his jaw. Lestrade pushes back, shoving Sherlock against the table. Trousers open, falling down, Sherlock pulling out Lestrade’s cock, still gnawing on his neck. His cock hardens in Sherlock’s hand... (he loved Sherlock’s hands, his fingers, scarred and long, his wrists, fine and strong)... There are cuffs attached to the table, if he could reach them. Sherlock hated, hated being tied or confined. They’d had some epic struggles over cuffs. If he could, he would, he’d throw him over, bolt him down, chest over shackled arms flat on the cold hard table, he’d bury himself in that plush white arse from behind, fist in his hair, elbow on his back, and grind “Why, why, you stupid, fucking bastard, why?”] 

 

There was that second time he laid hands on Sherlock, pulling up his head, off the flattened, bleeding suspect dead beneath him. His mouth slack, his eyes glazed. His hand, randomly, grasping Lestrade’s inner thigh. “If he can walk, throw him in a cell,” he yelled at Cooper, who was saner, summoning aid. He was released, he returned and returned and returned, custom becoming friendship.

[“Throw him in a cell,” he yells at Cooper. The slack mouth firms and smirks; one glazed eye winks. Lestrade checks the cell hours later, after shift. He finds Sherlock naked, lying on his bench. One arm is bent behind his head. His other arm lies across his stomach, his hand grasping his shaft. “You took your time,” he grumbles, deep rumbles; hoarse, but resonant. Lestrade...  
Suck or be sucked, he loves them both. That mouth wrapped around him, that cock full and fat on his tongue; both at once, the closed circuit, drinking each other down, hands clutching, fingers pressing into each other’s hips, jerking, rocking on the narrow, punishing bench.]

There was the time, the last time, Sherlock shook his hand. He could remember the press and feel of his fingers. He couldn’t remember the before or after or exactly when that night. “Take care,” he’d said, and Lestrade had thought that odd.

[“Take care,” he says, and lets go Lestrade’s hand to hold his face, to pull him close into a kiss. They’d never kissed before. This is hot and open. This is teeth pressing into his lower lip. This is shockingly sweet. This is Sherlock, when they break, laying his fingers across Lestrade’s mouth, letting them slide inside, letting Lestrade suck them, lick them, around and between, making them wet.  
Naked below the waist, where were they? Bare-arsed under their coats, outside, while sirens wailed? Sherlock’s long fingers, wet, stroke between Lestrade’s opened legs, rubbing across his sac, behind, and up, circling his opening. Lestrade gasps, Sherlock’s fingers stretch and push, up, in, harder in. He licks his lips, he looks cat-eyed into Lestrade’s eyes, and the push up and in becomes in and out, in and out, three fingers, four, Lestrade can’t tell, just yes, yes, harder, yes, gripping Sherlock’s arms, and _there there there there_ until his head snaps back to hit bricks and the sirens shriek.]

*

Now there’s this.

Now, amazingly, truly, there’s this time, this time after time, where Sherlock comes home. 

“You bastard,” says Lestrade. He pulls him close, crushing him. This time, he tells himself (he hopes), he’ll do it right.


End file.
